


Coppers

by whoredini



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Coppers, Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Reality TV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 07:47:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10271768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whoredini/pseuds/whoredini
Summary: Reality crime series "Coppers" go behind the scenes at New Scotland Yard, where DI Greg Lestrade and his team must solve a grisly murder.





	

1.  
(Day 1)

“Wait, guys, are we--?” DI Greg Lestrade drops his feet from the desk, up-ending a half-eaten donut onto a pile of paperwork in the process. He hastily mops up the tack of icing sugar with a crumpled paper napkin. Off-camera, Sergeant Donovan sighs.  
  
“Yeah, Greg, we’re live. We’ll take it from the--”  
  
“Oh shit,” he says, knocking over his coffee in an attempt to straighten his tie.  
  
“Maybe we should...” a female mumble suggests off-screen, while Greg blushes, swears and apologises.  
  
“Sorry guys, I’m a right klutz,” he’s saying, and then yelps, “Ouch, Jesus!” when the steaming coffee runs into his lap.  
  
The producer agrees and the screen goes blank.

 

2.

“Right,” Greg says, glancing at the camera once before remembering that he is supposed to pretend that it isn’t there. When the producer had first told him about ‘fly on the wall’ reality television, Greg had snorted and said, “I got it.” Fly on the wall? Until four months ago he’d just called it ‘being married.’

“We’re at The Bird pub,” Greg continues, leading the jostling group across the street to a weedy-looking establishment. Seagulls protest in the overcast sky, wings bony in the cool breeze. “A barman found the proprietor dead this morning. He’d been shot at close range with his own weapon.”  
  
Inside, the pub has been floodlit. Judging by the general amount of wear-and-tear, it’s easy to surmise the current investigation wasn’t the bar’s first.  
  
“Sally—I mean Sergeant Donovan—find out the last time the coppers were called out here to break up a fight, anything like that. And tell Anderson--”  
  
But his request is cut off by a sudden hiss. The camera swivels around to follow Sergeant Donovan’s glare.  
  
Two men have entered the pub. One is tall and pale with a definite crazy look about the eye. His coat flaps dramatically as he stalks into the room, squinting at the light fixtures and doing an on-the-spot about turn. His companion is short, squishy and prematurely grey. His expression is that of a man who has outlived many horrors and expects to see many more.  
  
“What’s the Freak doing here?!” Sally demands. “Tell me you didn’t call him, _sir_.” She side-eyes the camera.  
  
She’s right, so Greg affably pulls ranks. “Thought we could use some help on this one.” He explains it half to Sally, half to the camera. Only one is now focused on him: the other follows the tall man’s rapid progress around the room. “You know, show off the many talents New Scotland Yard bring together under one--”  
  
In the background, the tall man swings the greasy-looking candelabra from the ceiling. “AHA!” he yells, as the ceiling begins to give way.  
  
“Sherlock--!” the short man warns, but he’s interrupted by a falling corpse.  
  
_“You’ve got to be kidding me!”_ Sally fumes and storms away, bits of plaster drifting into her curly hair like snowflakes.  
  
“It’s Christmas!” sings the tall man, plucking his spluttering companion from beneath the sinewy skeleton and spinning him around by his shoulders.  
  
_“Gerroff!”_  
  
“Uhm, maybe we should--” The camera drops from Greg’s startled facial expression.  
  
“Yeah, yeah thanks guys, let’s just get this sorted--”  
  
Both cameras cut off.

 

3.

“Is it difficult being a woman in the police force?” Sally repeats the producer’s question. Her arms are crossed and her curls are dishevelled: there’s still some dust caught in them. In the background crime techs meander about, now cataloguing the new corpse.  
  
“It’s difficult being a copper, period.” Sally looks at the producer as she’s talking: the camera zooms in on her face. “It’s hard work, hard hours. There’s almost no time for friends and family, so we sort of become each other’s family, you know? We respect each other and we respect the job. So it’s hard when _someone_ \--” (Her eyes cut off-screen) “interferes, someone who’s just here for his own selfish gratification. And I’ll tell you something else: one day just showing up won’t be enough for Sherlock Holmes. One day we’ll be standing around a corpse and--”  
  
Her rant is interrupted by an absent-minded, “Donovan!” from across the room. The camera zooms in on Greg leaning over the mummified second corpse, face lit up with horror as he pats his pockets down, looking for something.  
  
Sally smarts professionally at the camera before spinning away, saying, “Oh for God’s _sake_ , Greg, your pen is behind your--”

 

4.

“Who am I?” repeats the tall man, not even bothering to pause from his close inspection of the second corpse to give the camera a withering glare: he doles it out at the body, like it’s a prism that will refract his displeasure toward the correct person. “Who are _you_? No, never mind, boring: failed architect by the look of your shoes, knew someone in television, about to be divorced for the third time in what, ten years?”  
  
“Uhm--” The camera shifts around.  
  
“John, phone,” the man says the same instant his front pocket chirrups. “There are no teeth, where are the teeth?” he mutters, sinking into a crouch (the camera follows him) before seizing something between the tips of his fingers.  
  
“Who said you could look at the body?!” a vulture-like crime scene tech demands, his scrawny legs plucking into view. “Hey, that’s evidence!” he whines.  
  
“Yes, Anderson, evidence,” snarls the other man, “something you only have a passing familiarity with—much like personal hygiene.”  
  
Anderson’s hurtle toward the tall man is impeded by the second camera person; the first captures footage of the crime scene tech’s rather spectacular fall. The tall man stalks off without noticing.

 

5.

“Are you Dr. John Watson?” the producer’s off-screen voice asks the tall man’s companion. He stands absolutely still, hands folded behind his back and shoulders rigid. He doesn’t acknowledge the camera.  
  
“Yes, I’m Dr. John Watson,” he says.  
  
There’s a bit of a silence.  
  
“And what’s your role here at the crime scene?” the producer prompts him.  
  
“My role here at the crime scene is to assist Sherlock Holmes.”  
  
“And Sherlock Holmes is a ‘consulting detective’?” the producer ascertains when John continues to stare at her without blinking.  
  
“Yes, Sherlock Holmes is a consulting detective.”  
  
“A ‘consulting detective’?” the producer queries.  
  
“Yes, a ‘consulting detective’,” John confirms.  
  
“What does a ‘consulting detective’ do?” the producer asks.  
  
“He consults,” John says, perfectly serious, “as a detective.”  
  
There’s a bit of a silence.  
  
“As I understand it, he has a unique investigative style,” the producer tries.  
  
John blinks once. “Yes,” he says, clearing his throat when the silence drags on.  
  
“Would you mind taking us through it?”  
  
“He uses the science of deduction,” John says.  
  
“The ‘science of deduction’?”  
  
“Yes, the science of--”  
  
“Oh for God’s sake!” snaps a baritone off-screen. A frown appears between John's eyebrows.  
  
“Err.” (There’s a sound like notes being shuffled.)  
  
“It’s not a real science,” John says, still staring at the producer. His lips twitch in satisfaction when someone splutters in the background.

 

6.  
(Day 2)

DI Dimmock glares at the camera as it takes up position behind him, primed on the scuffed, faded door with an untidily spray-painted ‘3’ on it. He’s wrapped up in a tan coat and clutching an official-looking paper.  
  
He raps three times, then stoops forward to listen. When he straightens, tense nods are exchanged, belt buckles are touched, shoulders are primed. He takes three steps back, braces himself, and rushes forward.  
  
The door opens. There is a comical moment of panic when both DI Dimmock and Sherlock Holmes realise they are about to make bodily contact and throw themselves into different directions: Dimmick into the door frame and Sherlock Holmes into his doctor friend.  
  
_“What the **bleep**?”_ yells DI Dimmock.  
  
“A penny!” shouts Sherlock excitedly, arm snapping up in triumph, a dusty penny pinched between his thumb and forefinger.  
  
_“Gerroff!”_ protests John.  
  
When the cameras roll again, the three men are arranged in a more traditional configuration: arms folded (Dimmock), hands pocketed (Sherlock), wrists clasped behind backs (John). There is only light panting. The penny has been put away.  
  
“The rat droppings clearly demonstrate that Idleman is involved with what happened at the pub yesterday--” Sherlock is saying, his frustration invading personal space, knocking against John's shoulder and making the camera twitch nervously.  
  
“That doesn’t give you the authority to break into his house--” DI Dimmock is furious.  
  
_“Authority!”_ Sherlock snorts. “If I had to wait for you idiots to catch up I’d be a geriatric by the time cases were solved! Come along, John,” he adds to his partner, who follows with an apologetic shrug to everyone.  
  
Dimmock’s attempts to tackle the tall man are unintentionally prevented by a stray audio technician. The tall man does not notice.

 

7.

Dr. Molly Hooper’s smile jumps around on her face. Her cheeks are flushed and her lipstick badly applied.  
  
“How long have you worked with Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Hooper?” the off-screen producer asks.  
  
“Three years, two months and a week,” she answers immediately. Her eyes flick between the producer and the camera; she offers the latter a tentative smile and tucks her hair behind her ear.  
  
“And has he always been so...” There is an uncomfortable pause in which no polite descriptions present themselves.  
  
“Yes, he’s brilliant,” says Dr. Hooper anyway, all in one breath. “He’s just so intelligent, it’s unbelievable, he notices everything and he’s so dedicated and he _smells_ \--”  
  
Greg clears his throat in the background and Molly mumbles to a stop, her face recolouring. She gives the camera another shy smile.  
  
“And how long have you known his partner, Dr. Watson?” the producer queries.  
  
Molly’s smile hesitates. “His—his partner?”  
  
“Yes. John Watson--”  
  
“I know who he is,” she says, a little too hastily. There is a second of silence before she clears her throat, a renewed blush burning on her cheeks. “I’ve only known him a few months,” she says.  
  
“Do you think their disparate personalities complement their relationship?”  
  
“Re—relationship?” she stutters. She glances at Greg. He shrugs.  
  
“They work together, don’t they?” the producer asks, but just as Molly’s facial expression resolves back into pleased coyness, the producer adds, “And live together.”  
  
“I don’t—there really isn’t—I think we should—oh, Jim!”  
  
The camera pans to the door, where a slight, dark-haired man has stuck his head in. But as soon as he sees the cameras his head disappears again. Molly follows his “Sorry, sorry!” from the room, leaving the crew alone with a suddenly unhappy-looking DI.  
  
“Work relationships never last,” he tells them. He does not appear to notice that there is a pencil with a pink heart-shaped eraser on one end stuck behind his left ear.

 

8.

There is a tall man in a three-piece suit waiting for Greg in his office when he gets back from St Bart’s. His face is pixellated, which is odd because the _Coppers_ crew aren’t the ones doing it.

 

9.  
(Day 3)

The camera pans from the slim, dishevelled back of Sherlock Holmes to take in the paper tacked wall absorbing his attention. The rest of the flat gets a once-over, showing scatters of books, papers, and bric-a-brac. There is a skull on the mantelpiece, dejected beneath a Monopoly board speared to the wall with a penknife.  
  
“We’re in the flat of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson,” the producer whispers, off-screen, “watching the deduction process in progress. Mr. Holmes has indicated that he’s remarkably close to a breakthrough--”  
  
“He’s actual words were, ‘Shut up, shut up, nobody think, nobody breathe’,” comments John in a normal speaking voice, also off-screen.  
  
“--and we’re looking forward to catching his moment of triumph on film. Indeed, observing Mr. Holmes at work has been a marvel. That he’s a genius is indisputable--”  
  
“He was once attacked with a melon,” says John.  
  
“--and we are _very_ intrigued to see him bring this case to its conclusion--”  
  
“It was overripe,” John notes.  
  
“--even as New Scotland Yard struggles along in his wake--”  
  
“I made a smoothie with some of the leftover chunks,” John confides.  
  
_“Oh for the love of--”_ Sherlock snaps, spinning around to glare at the pair of them, doing so just in time to miss the rapid ascent of a livid-faced man through the window. The intruder wields a knife.  
  
It is Mr. Idleman, murderer at large! The producer shrieks. The cameraman stumbles back. Idleman snarls at Sherlock, catching him off-guard. In the confused jumble of frames, John leaping Idleman away from Sherlock and socking him in the balls is just visible.  
  
_“Gerroff!”_ tussles Idleman, before John socks him in the nose.  
  
_“Oh my God, oh my God--”_ The producer is screaming.  
  
The footage cuts off.

 

10.  
_(Deleted footage)_

“I was in an advertisement once--” Anderson jogs to keep up with the producer and her team as they hurry to follow Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson down a blustery boatyard just off the river Thames. Anderson sports a swollen nose, two candles of tissue paper stuck up either nostril.  
  
“Oh, that’s very interesting, but--” the producer says, distracted by the uneven terrain and their pursuit. The wind howls and blusters around them. Up ahead, Sherlock Holmes’ coat flares out like a cape.  
  
“--and I was an understudy for our high school rendition of Hamlet, so you could say I’m used to--” Anderson loses his beanie to the wind but doesn’t appear to notice.  
  
“If we could perhaps speak another time--” The producer ups her pace.  
  
_“TO BE OR NOT TO BE!”_ Anderson shrieks after her as they outrun him.

 

11.  
(Day 4)

It is immediately obvious that Sherlock Holmes is off his head on pain medication.  
  
“John!” he shouts with a violent twitch, emerging from a drizzle of napping, scaring everyone but the doctor in question.  
  
“Shh, shh,” John tells him, “you’re still in the hospital.”  
  
This appears to perplex Sherlock no end. He looks around at them all – John, Greg, Molly, a pixellated corner, and the producer and her camera crew – before a look of horror crosses his face.  
  
“Am I dead?” he clutches at John.  
  
“No you muffin, you’re just on morphine,” John laughs at him but adjusts the pillow behind Sherlock’s head.  
  
“John,” Sherlock gasps, delighted, _“morphine!”_  
  
“And you’re not even paying for it,” John says. The camera flicks to the pixellated corner. It radiates disapproval.  
  
“Not really a wide margin of escape,” Greg comments. “If John hadn’t wrestled Idleman off of you...”  
  
“John saved me.” Sherlock’s eyes drift close, but he sounds confident of this. “John always saves me.”  
  
The camera zooms in on Sherlock and John; Sherlock looking peaceful, John doting.  
  
Then Sherlock starts awake again.  
  
_“You!”_ he shouts at Greg, jabbing a finger at him. “You attacked me with a melon!”  
  
Sherlock attempts to tackle him, but the tip of an umbrella emerges from the pixellation and trips Sherlock before he can reach the DI.

**Author's Note:**

> If you spot any typos or mistakes please let me know. Thanks for reading :).


End file.
